Bound to cover just a little more ground

The chair and desk I’ve drawn you all these birds at is getting packed into the back of my truck. In just a few days I’m heading north on 101 to a city by the bay. The idea of which fills my head and heart with a thousand emotions.

I can’t see the future. Not even with all the fortune cookies I’ve had over the years, but I predict if you will: This move will send ripples through my artwork. “Positive Vibrations” to quote a Rastafarian I heard singing on a record player once.

I guess though, like everything else in life, we’ll just have to wait and see.

The uncertainty is the fuel for my hearts fire and I throw my hat over the wall and climb to go fetch it.

Thank you for your continued support (letting me waste your time with crudely drawn birds and Grateful Dead quotes).


One of the last few sketches put down here in these four walls. Between packing boxes and filling out paperwork I made good time for another Owl friend.

One of the last few sketches put down here in these four walls. Between packing boxes and filling out paperwork I made good time for another Owl friend.

The Earth will see you on through this time


If I had an angel it would be a Red-tailed Hawk. That is if I were to have a say in the matter.
Passing by the hours with a pen after a walk to the Grocery, were I crossed paths with an old mistake.
Fate twisted the knife in my side, never had I met somebody so good at making me feel my worst for trying my best. Humans are but that though.
None free from our own delights and pains.
And when I find that I’ve set myself lower than I should, I conjure up some lines on a page that will deliver me from, although briefly, all my trials.
And nothing more for shall I ever ask.

To fall down the drawing table’s rabbit hole again.

Eight hours of drawing tiny lines with a Micron pen bought me these branches, bird, and flower
If such a thing could be bought, this would be how.
My time.
My eye sees it finished before the pen touches cold-press.
While I draw the thought of a lost love rolls through my mind like an old covered wagon,
scrub-brush tangled in the wheels, and the image flickers.
I often travel all the way through the image and into some other place right while sitting still pen in hand.
I can see the songs I love to hear in them, and I can hear the places I like to visit.
It doesn’t matter if it’s a drawing of a Red-tail or a Wren, a mountain range or cellular structure.
If I can catch a glimpse of it, I’ll give my all to put it to page.
Sometimes it’s on wing, and sometimes the branches are empty.

skipping pages forward in a book you once read.


All to aware time isn’t standing still,
Still he’d like to clear another rise.
Snowflakes across his starry eyes.
To feel alone would be a blessing for this one.
Recanting any statement of any sort of wisdom gained.
As to owe no debt to a situation. He’s a walking superstition.
Unknowingly so.
Where can I find you?
In my church.
The howling winds are my church bells ringing,
The mockingbird is the choir singing.
The rocky peak is the church’s steeple,
The trees around are it’s people.



Three little birds for Bob Marley.

There’s another stack of books on my desk:

1. National Geographic’s field guide to the Birds of North America.

2. The journal I first wrote these words in.

3. Jim Harrison’s “The Woman Lit by Fireflies”.

The voice of a ghost sings through the dust on the speakers. It’s a reggae song about love and hope.

I’ll turn it up but the hour is late. So I turn it up in my mind.

I can put away the paintbrushes, it’s past 10pm and my work is done.

I freed the sketches from the cage inside my head.

Bird pun? real classy…

Lesser Goldfinch

Lesser Goldfinch

American Goldfinch

American Goldfinch

Purple Finch.

Purple Finch.